All the King's Horses and All the King's Men
by merlinmercury
Summary: How many times had Castiel been broken apart—mind and body—and reassembled? How many more until the pieces of him, flesh and blood, light and feathered shadow, were finally left to settle in the trash? Sequel to Into Oblivion. Post-8x22.


The building had remained much the same; still vast, hollow and abandoned, afflicted with the same cruel Russian chill. It had been years since Castiel had been here; years of wandering, clinging to hope as it surged and then ebbed away, time and time again. Previously, he had paced these frozen concrete floors as a god, swollen with souls and paradoxically as humbled and broken as he had ever been. He came now as no less of a lost thing.

In the corner a small fire crackled in a metal drum. A haggard man—not elderly, but scruffy and weathered—squatted beside it. He had not been here last time.

The man seemed surprised to see him—after all, he had materialised suddenly—but took a long look at the boxes filled with vodka bottles Castiel carried, one in each hand, and evidently decided not to press the matter. Instead, he gestured roughly to the flames, an invitation.

"I'm Vlad," he spoke in Russian. Castiel noted that it had been some time since he had conversed with anyone in this tongue.

He already knew the man's name, of course—he had watched him, like he had all of humanity, for so many years. Having learned that bringing the personal matters of strangers often caused them some distress, Castiel refrained from telling Vlad that his wife had not been with any other man, as he had suspected. She, and their young son, had died caring deeply for him.

Castiel wondered what it would be like to know such a thing. He supposed that since Meg's death, he understood both love and grief a little better. It shocked him how much he missed her sometimes—even her strange references, lewd jokes and insistence on calling him Clarence. She had _seen_ him, wanted _him_, been fascinated by exactly who Castiel was in a way not even Dean had ever had the patience for. Dean had always had Sam, but with Azazel dead and Lucifer back in the cage, Meg had been as alone, as outcast as Castiel. She had focused on him, helped him, been able to trigger something between them even though it should have been the most impossible thing in all the world, heaven, hell and purgatory combined.

Castiel had many regrets, but his feelings for Meg were not among them.

"Good evening, Vlad," he murmured, taking two bottles of liquor from the first box and passing one to the other man, who nodded appreciatively.

Castiel liked humans. He liked sitting beside them and experiencing the uniqueness present in even the most everyday aspects of each individual. He had listened to them for years from up in heaven, but it was different, warmer somehow, when they spoke to him as someone they could see, touch, address, forming the words directly for his benefit. Talking about the weather, their favourite sporting teams, their families.

Family. Now there was a word of significance.

Dean had told him, not so long ago, that they were family, covered in his own blood, smashed bones swimming in bruises left behind by Castiel's fist. _I need you. We're family. _It had been everything he had craved but never heard before, and the flood of it through his consciousness had been incredible, severing Naomi's marionette strings in one fierce stroke. Castiel knew what family was to Dean; he had observed him, seen how his every word and action was built around that loyalty to his father, his brother, his mother's memory. He had pieced him back together, after Dean's time in hell, feeling the strength of those ties beneath his touch as he worked.

The last time Castiel had come here, he had thought to himself that if Dean could only be his family, things would be alright. Now, he had heard those words.

And here he still was, downing vodka all the same, hoping he had enough drink to make an impact this time.

Castiel shrugged out of his coat and held it out to Vlad, who looked at him like he was a madman, but took the extra layer gratefully. Castiel unlaced his shoes too, tugging them off and passing them over. Vlad's feet were slightly smaller than Jimmy Novak's, clad only in ratty socks and badly affected by exposure to the freezing climate. Castiel had not been able to track Vlad's activities since he had taken his vessel, and it pained him to see the extra damage that time had done.

Two bottles now lay empty on the hard floor, and Vlad appeared to have given up being surprised by Castiel's activities at all, contenting himself with almost half a bottle of his own so far. Castiel cracked the seal of a third, still waiting for the buzz he remembered from previous alcoholic escapades to set in. He was more than ready to welcome it.

He had asked Metatron to give him some time to take care of private business, alone, after they had butchered the Nephilim. It should hardly have unsettled him, Castiel thought mirthlessly, to feel his blade slicing through fat and muscle and organs, after all those that he had killed before. It had, though. It always did. Castiel's actions had never been intentionally malicious; he was always following orders, removing threats for those he cared about, defending himself. He had done everything out of necessity.

Things never seemed to go as he planned, though. He envied the Winchesters' apparent gift for fumbling through and coming out victorious. Castiel had tried to make peace in heaven, and had instead slaughtered thousands. From what Metatron had told him, heaven was still well and truly at war, mind-control just another brutal tactic in the fight.

He had tried to remove the angel tablet from the picture—defeating demons was one thing, but it was not in the interests of heaven or earth for any of the angel factions or Crowley to get their hands on a new, catastrophic heavenly weapon. His reluctance to let the Winchesters have it came with concern that angels and demons alike would never let them be if they were burdened with it, but was perhaps a little selfish too. He knew what Dean thought of angels. Castiel's very existence was for the sake of collateral damage.

So he had taken the burden upon himself. Filled with hope by that single word which had slipped from Dean's broken lips, he had gone about what he believed had to be done and trusted, this time, that Dean would try to understand. That was what family members did for each other.

He had done what he could; endured hands prying his skin and ribcage and lungs apart, scratching his grace raw to extract the tablet, with the satisfying knowledge that it was not Dean's body being torn into.

He had stumbled home only to find that that most treasured word appeared to have been revoked.

It dismantled him in ways the pounding of trapped leviathan, the obliterating power of Lucifer's irritation, the invasion of heaven's mental modifications, and every last bullet, sword or knife that had ever pierced him never had. How many times had he been broken apart—mind and body—and reassembled? How many more until the pieces of him, flesh and blood, light and feathered shadow, were finally left to settle in the trash?

He didn't know whether it would be better to live or return to dust—hadn't known for some time.

_More vodka_, he decided, finishing off a fifth bottle. He was beginning to feel something. Anxious to hurry the process along, he opened up the second box.

Beside him, Vlad had begun to snore softly, nearly-empty bottle sitting in his lap. Beneath the greying beard, the skin chapped by cold, wrinkled by stress and smeared with the dirt of homelessness, Vlad appeared peaceful. Castiel knew Dean found it strange, but watching people sleep was one of his favourite things, especially when they were calm—dreamless or lost in a pleasant vision.

He wondered vaguely what Metatron thought of humanity, having lived amongst it for so long; whether he understood the craftsmanship of each specimen, or found anything that lacked the drama of a folktale or novel uninteresting. It was concerning to see how an angel could be surrounded by such wonder and still never appreciate any of it for what it was. Metatron seemed to think he and Castiel were the same—but they were not. Metatron had never flinched at the idea of murdering the Nephilim, never thought to consider her a miracle rather than an abomination. He spoke as though to be half human was the disgrace, but it was not for that half of her parentage that Castiel pitied her. He thought of Meg once more, imagined what Metatron might think if he ever found out about her. It occurred to him that Metatron was using him, of course—but the suspicion, however strong, did little to sway him. What was he, if not a disposable instrument, a body to be put on the line, a mere statistic? At least he could be used by a player whose strategy would shield the earth from the inevitable fallout of heaven's chaos.

The new sense of purpose wasn't comforting, though—not the way he wanted it to be; it was born of loneliness, and that loneliness it would feed until he died, alone. The feeling washed through him, cold, more bitter than the physical chill of the air, unable to be numbed or tempered by the burn of alcohol in his throat. It was unpleasant, but not unfamiliar.

Castiel had washed the Nephilim's blood from his hands with the belief, the hope, that these trials, in killing him, may finally complete the task.


End file.
